Page 52 of Broken Pregnant Mate
Chapter 23 - Aidan
When we climb the wall and fall into Oren’s old bedroom, we find that it is, in fact, not his bedroom anymore.
Instead, it’s an amalgamation of things—some of them destroyed, some of them looking like they’ve accumulated the dust of a year. Up against the far wall, there’s a mattress torn to pieces, the ribbons hanging loosely down. A lamp is abandoned in the corner, wires hanging out, light bulbs shattered. I imagine Jerrod finding the room empty, smashing everything in here.
Toward the door, there are bins, wooden crates, and even some vials of swirling, bright liquid. It looks like someone destroyed the room, then someone else decided that, as long as it was no longer being used as a bedroom, it should be used as a storage unit.
Dust floats through the air, agitated by our presence, and Emin starts to sneeze before Dorian shoots him a look, and Emin pinches his nose.
“This is great,” Oren says, straightening up after dropping through the window. He pushes the hair back from his face and glances around the space, his eyes lingering on the bed, the lamp, a trophy ripped right off the base. “Good thing I took everything I cared about with me.”
“It’s a nice place, really.” Emin makes a face. “Don’t be embarrassed, you weren’t expecting company.”
To my surprise, Oren actually lets out a little chuckle, shaking his head and pushing through to the front of the room, his body vibrating with a new kind of urgency.
Though there are a lot of things different about him and me, I recognize the energy he’s giving off right now. It’s probablyhow I’d be if I found myself back in the home, looking at the bedraggled rooms where we used to sleep—if I was staring at the closet where I’d hide Emaline, promising her that I would keep her safe, even as I knew it wasn’t a promise I’d be able to keep. The other men were bigger than me, stronger than me.
But I did my best, and kept any of them from putting their hands on her.
I glance around the bedroom, eyes straining through the dark, wondering what exactly happened to Oren while here. It’s one thing to go through all that trauma at the hands of the house managers—it’s another for it to be your own father, someone who’s supposed to love you no matter what, hurting you instead.
One benefit of my parents being dead is that they could never disappoint me like that.
“We have to hurry,” Oren says, turning with his hand on the knob, his eyes locked on it. “Before our scent blockers wear off.”
“Alright,” Dorian says, looking first at Oren, then at me. “Go on—lead the way.”
Oren nods, sucks in a breath, and opens the door. He moves quickly, crouching and sliding along the walls, all traces of mirth gone as he leads us through the mansion, down the hallway and a set of stairs, toward the action. We hear the party growing closer, and my heart starts to hammer.
From the sound of it, there are a lot of people here. Which means, if I can’t pull this off, there are a whole lot of people to see me fail.
“Are you ready?” Dorian whispers when we turn the corner and the large, gilded entrance to a ballroom comes intoview. There are a few staff members in the hall, but they barely even glance at us.
They look like zombies, barely on their feet, barely holding on. I wonder how many hours you have to work as a staff member here, and glance at Dorian.
Before Kira came back to our pack, shedidwork here. Jerrod Blacklock’s private chef, and she said he was every bit the creep rumors made him out to be.
Beyond the doorway, the interior of the ballroom gleams with amber and crystal, every surface polished to a mirrored shine. The din of posh voices rises from inside, the gentle chatter of a sophisticated party. A huge chandelier sways gently, a thousand tiny candles sending a joyous golden light throughout the room.
“You have to initiate the challenge, just like we practiced,” Dorian says, leaning in, meeting my eyes, holding them like a dad coaching his son through his first hit in a little league game. “When you feel for sure that Jarred won’t be able to talk his way out of it.”
I nod, and suddenly it’s happening. The thing that I’ve built up to for two solid years is finally taking place, and I start to feel like I’m floating outside my body.
Oren steps into the ballroom, head held high. Like in a movie, there’s an immediate hush to the room. Heads turn, finding him and realizing, surely, what’s about to happen.
“Did I miss the birthday toast?” Oren asks, a cocky surety to his voice that could only come from the man standing in front of him.
The musicians falter, instruments squeaking to silence.
Jerrod Blacklock freezes with a wine glass halfway to his mouth, turning almost robotically.
When his eyes—dark, shadowed—land on his son, something strange flashes across his features. From the hallway, waiting to come in, the three of us watch, and I try to work out what that expression is, what about it is putting me on edge.
“Oren,” Jerrod says, the word coming out in a single breath. Even from here, I can see that his hand is shaking on his glass—what the fuck?
All this time, the famed tyrant, the horrible, abusive alpha leader of the Grayhides, is shaking…just from seeing his son? A man twenty years his junior, who hasn’t even threatened him yet?
“I was under the impression that you weren’t coming back, that you renounced your claim to this pack,” Jerrod goes on, his eyes skittering around the room, his body held still, almost as though he can’t quite move his body the way he wants to. “You should have stayed gone, son.”
